


For lack of love, but not of friendship

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [2]
Category: True Detective
Genre: (and also maybe feelings or whatever), (who cares), Domestic, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, plain and simple, this is a story about Thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: On the way to the entrance, Rust murmurs “You alright, man?” with his eyes firmly trained on the ground, and Marty says “Yes, fine, why?” way too fast to be even remotely convincing, even to his own ears. He needs to stop this, he decides, a touch desperately. This is fucking ridiculous. Marty’s a grown-ass man with some self-control at least and also, Rust doesn’t deserve this.In which Marty is having a hard time - but not for the reasons he thought he would.(This is a direct sequel to "A bold and dangerous line")
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594621
Comments: 38
Kudos: 140





	For lack of love, but not of friendship

“We’re out of peanut butter,” Rust says absentmindedly, as he’s leaning against the kitchen counter and flipping through yesterday’s mail.

“D’you put it on the list?” Marty says.

Rust just looks up and slowly blinks at him without saying anything, because he thinks the list is stupid. 

Hasn’t said so out loud, but Marty can tell. Which is too fucking bad, honestly, because there’s two people who want things now, living in this here house, despite the fact that Rust likes to pretend he can get by on air and cigarettes and pessimistic reading material alone. So they need to write shit down, in case just one of them has time to stop at the store on their way home or whatever. 

It’s called communication. Look it up. 

“Put it on the list,” Marty says, and Rust has the nerve to go, "Yeahhh..." which means he's not going to, and they both know it. Marty stares at him resentfully. Yesterday they… well. _Did it_ on their living room couch. It doesn’t even feel that weird, apart from the obvious. 

Nothing has changed. Rust still slept in the guest bedroom, because that’s where he wandered off to last night. It’s not like Marty wanted him to, but he also didn’t really know what the etiquette was and hesitated for a moment too long and then he couldn’t very well go over and knock at Rust’s closed door to just… invite him over to actually _sleep_ in Marty’s bed, now could he?

Maybe he should have tried. 

The one thing that _has_ changed, irrevocably and undeniably, is the fact that Marty can't even _look_ at him now without feeling hot under the collar. It's almost like being a teenager again, except _worse,_ because now Marty’s not a clueless idiot anymore, running on hormones and bravado; now he has experience instead of vague fantasies and daydreams. 

And fuck, but he _wants._ Wants to shove Rust up onto the next flat surface and kiss him, put his tongue in Rusts mouth and his hand on Rust’s dick, wants to bend him over and hold him close at the same time, fist a hand in his hair and make him moan and pant, wants to put his mouth _everywhere,_ and maybe even put his dick inside of him, if Rust was willing to do that sort of thing. Which he might not be, who even knows.

So now here they are, here _Marty_ is, stuck in his own kitchen on a Saturday morning, because they have to go to the Home Depot, staring at Rust Cohle in his stupid flannel shirt that’s hanging off his lanky frame like he’s an actual coat hanger instead of a person, chewing his last bit of toast and watching Marty with half-lidded eyes.

It’s enough to make Marty irritable, because... _Christ._ This seems like a whole lifetime’s worth of fantasies and nothing about it feels new or foreign, despite the fact he hasn’t been thinking theses things, because he’d fucking _remember_ if he had. He should be freaking out about this, or feel weird about it at the very least, but he _isn’t_. 

Rust is still watching him silently, face unreadable, which is unfair, honestly – how Rust always seems to be able to read Marty so fucking easily, like an open book that contains mostly pictures and very few words, while being completely closed off himself, if he so chooses. Finally, he reaches out to take the list off the fridge; where it’s pinned with a magnet that claims _What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!_ in garish colors, and leans down to scribble the words _peanut butter_ underneath the last item in his loopy handwriting.

“Anythin’ else,” he then says, looking up at Marty expectantly. “While we’re at it?” 

“No,” Marty says, distracted, trying to ignore the long, hard line of Rust’s body folded over the kitchen counter; trying not to think about how easy it would be to just… press up behind him, if Rust was inclined to let him, so close not even a piece of paper would fit between them, hold him tight, pull that fabric out of the way- 

“No,” Marty repeats and then takes a sip of lukewarm tea to cover the rasp in his voice. He’s really trying to cut back on the coffee, and since this is the weekend, he’s decided he should be able to make do without any caffeine on those two days, at least. “C’mon then. We get there too late, whole place is gonna be packed.”

“Gonna be like that anyway,” Rust says, while he fixes the list back onto the fridge, and Marty can’t help but roll his eyes at him, can’t help but feeling fond.

“You know, that’s my favorite quality about you,” he says and without missing a beat Rust says, “Really? Never knew you liked my penmanship that much” very sarcastically, and Marty has another one of those moments visualizing how exactly he’d shove him backwards and on top of the counter, crowd between his legs-

“Nah,” he says and has to clear his throat. “Your optimism.”

“Above all, my displeasure in everything displeases me,” Rust says, in that solemn drawl that means it must be a quote, most likely from someone very smart, depressed and dead. 

“Yeah, well,” Marty says. “What displeases _me_ is a crowded parking lot, so… c’mon. Let’s go.”

* * *

He spends the entire car ride trying not to wonder what it would feel like to suck dick and whether that might be something he could get into or not. Probably would be willing to try it at least once, he decides, and then they could go from there. Wonders what Rust would do with his legs during a blowjob, if he’s the type of guy to draw them up or not, if he’d hook one of them over Marty’s shoulder- and how exactly did Marty even end up here, at his fucking age, wondering these stupid things. 

The parking lot of the Home Depot is pretty busy, but they manage to find a spot not too far from the entrance.

“You see that,” Marty says triumphantly, as he pulls into the empty space before anybody else can snatch it away. “Shit like that never happens! It’s a Saturday morning miracle.”

“Which denomination would that be, then?” Rust says, seemingly unimpressed, but he’s amused, Marty can fucking tell. 

“The nomination of you shutting the hell up,” Marty says. “Case that wasn’t obvious.”

“Huh,” Rust says, as he opens the car door. “Never heard of that one before. Must be one of those new ones.”

Marty watches him get out of the car, slow and languid, like he’s pouring out onto the asphalt, almost. This shouldn’t be a turn-on, he thinks angrily, and it most definitely shouldn’t make him think of the way Rust rolled his hips the other day, pressing his dick against Marty’s palm, or the way he sounded doing it, _fuck._ Then he realizes he’s just sitting there, thinking his thoughts, while Rust is staring at him through the open passenger door, brow furrowed, one hand planted on the roof of the car, just... waiting for him. 

On the way to the entrance, Rust murmurs “You alright, man?” with his eyes firmly trained on the ground, and Marty says “Yes, fine, why?” way too fast to be even remotely convincing, even to his own ears. He needs to _stop this,_ he decides, a touch desperately. This is fucking ridiculous. Marty’s a grown-ass man with _some_ self-control at least and also, Rust doesn’t deserve this. 

_Nobody_ fucking deserves this.

His resolve lasts for a full ten minutes, and then he happens to look over at Rust, who's just _standing_ there like a perfectly normal person, looking for screws in the right size, chewing on his lower lip, tattooed arm resting against the display shelf, and flushes hot all over, imagining what it would be like to just push Rust up against it and kiss him until they’re both breathless- 

Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Marty thinks, annoyed at himself, this is getting pathetic. He doesn’t even know Rust’s opinion on any of this, not really, so he needs to reign it in. 

Maybe they _should_ have talked about it. What it meant, what their expectations are, if they want it to happen again at some point. Because Marty's answer to that question would be a resounding yes, but he can't help but think Rust would have… probably not wandered off to sleep in his own bed last night, if they happened to be on the same page about it, and while he hasn't been weird, exactly, he's definitely been… subdued all morning. Cautious. It might be hard to tell with him and his usual persona, but Marty fancies himself an expert at this point. 

“Right,” he says, maybe a touch too loud, clasping his hands together. “You know what, I’m gonna go and see if I don’t manage to find a cordless screwdriver that isn’t complete-”

“Ours ain’t broken, Marty,” Rust says immediately, sounding exasperated, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“It ain’t loading,” Marty says dutifully, because they've been cycling through this exact same argument for over two weeks at this point and it feels like safe territory right now. “So what fuckin' good is it-”

“Cable of the charger station’s fucked,” Rust tells him with absolute certainty, for what feels like the millionth time. “I can fix that, no problem.”

"See, you keep saying that and yet...” Marty says and then trails off, because a group of people comes marching through the aisle, clearly on a mission, and Marty has to take a step to the side to let them pass, and when he starts paying attention again, Rust is _right there,_ looking impossibly earnest. He’s clutching two packets of screws in one hand, arms just dangling by his side, and he smells of cigarettes and Marty’s shower gel, which would make sense, because that’s all he ever uses; and Marty just stares at the hollow spot between his collarbones and has an almost visceral urge to put his mouth there and dip his tongue into it. 

He takes a deep, involuntary breath and Rust swallows – Marty can see his throat work, can _hear_ it, too and drags his gaze upwards, fucking mesmerized. Rust is looking down already, meeting him halfway, eyelids heavy and with his mouth hanging open just a bit, like he was going to say something and then forgot. 

“I swear to _God,_ Robert,” says a loud, female voice behind them, shattering the moment and making them both jump. “You're not doing the pool by yourself. Remember the last time, with those chemicals-” A couple brushes past them, openly bickering, as Robert valiantly tries to defend his decision to “do the pool” all by himself and Marty hastily takes a step back, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into his back pockets to keep them from doing anything stupid.

“Right,” he says. “I, it’s, I was just gonna, you know, I'm…”

“Yeah,” Rust says, sounding hoarse. He’s blinking rapidly, like he just woke up from rare sleep and is now confused. “Yeah, you… yeah, whatever. Go.”

They split up after that, which seems like the safest option, all things considered. Marty ends up running a little late in the end, because he gets into a conversation about lawnmowers with one of the shop assistants, and then he waits around at the check out for a good five minutes before he finally spots Rust already outside, next to the glass doors of the entrance, having a smoke. Probably paid everything by himself and fled the scene, Marty thinks, feeling a bit guilty, because Rust doesn’t _enjoy_ having to be around a lot of people at once; and while the store isn’t exactly crowded yet, it’s definitely getting there. 

“There you fuckin’ are,” Marty says, once he gets outside as well, trying to ignore the shift of muscle in Rusts underarm, when he reaches up to take the cigarette out of his mouth. Briefly wonders what Rust's arm would look like if he was gripping a pillow, or maybe Marty's back instead, before he violently shoves the thought aside. 

“Here I fuckin’ am,” Rust agrees. “Took you long enough. Made some new friends in there?”

“Oh, yeah,” Marty says. “Plenty. Turns out people tend to be a lot more civil if they don’t have to hear ‘bout their own mortality as a conversation starter. Who'd have thought?”

“People love to cling to their delusions,” Rust says and Marty can't quite tell if that means he's agreeing or not. “I’ve come to realize that most of the time, you just have to let 'em.” 

“Hmmm,” Marty says, a non-committal noise. “You good? All done?” 

“Yeah,” Rust says, nodding down to the two plastic bags at his feet. He's got really long legs, Marty thinks, which isn't even fucking _news_ at this point, because he distinctly remembers this being one of the first impressions of Rust he ever had. _Christ, that's one lanky motherfucker._ And now, more than a decade later, that fact still washes over him like it's some brand new revelation; makes him wonder how flexible Rust might be, and if he'd wrap his legs around Marty's waist when-

“I was thinking pasta,” Marty says hastily. “Yeah? Unless you wanna stop somewhere along the way?”

“Nahh,” Rust says. “Sounds good.” Then he adds, awkwardly, “Don’t need to fuckin’... wine and dine me, man.”

Marty freezes, heartbeat kicking up. This is the first thing that comes even close to acknowledging anything that happened yesterday. Maybe. Possibly. Who knows. 

“I don’t?” he says, which comes out a lot more perplexed than he actually wanted it to, and then, without even thinking, “Yeah, I do.”

Which doesn’t make a lot of sense, because he _isn’t,_ wasn’t even trying to do that.

It is Rust’s turn to look surprised, apparently, because he stares at Marty, wide-eyed and startled, before he seems to shake it off, and puts what's left of his cigarette between his lips again with a strangely determined air. 

“C’mon, man,” he says. “Startin’ to grow roots over here.”

So Marty does.

* * *

Once they get back home, he sends Rust into the house to get things started in the kitchen, while Marty takes his time putting their purchases away, because again, splitting up feels safer somehow. When he gets back to the kitchen, Rust has already put on a pot of water. 

He’d be a pretty decent cook, Marty’s absolutely sure of that, if he ever actually decided to try. It’s not like Marty’s some kind of master chef, but then again, it’s not like basic cooking is that fucking complicated. Rust would be smart and practical enough to pull it off, except for whatever reason, he doesn’t really seem to want to – he likes to be in the kitchen to watch Marty cook and he'll do everything he's tasked with, diligently and without complaining, but he never takes any initiative. 

Used to be, he wouldn’t even tell Marty what he’d prefer to eat when presented with two options, claiming to not “give a shit, man” so Marty had to pay a bit of extra attention to figure out what he actually liked. (Nothing too complicated as it turns out, thank God. It almost feels like feeding a teenager sometimes, lack of appetite and mood swings included.) 

Now Rust is sitting on top the kitchen counter, with his shoulders slumped, unopened package of pasta in his hands, turning it around and around restlessly.

“Alright?” he says. 

“Yeah,” Marty says. “Yeah, fine. Want me to do the honors?”

Rust hands over the pasta wordlessly. Watches as Marty takes a knife to poke a hole in the corner, before ripping the entire thing open and dumping a third of into water that is not quite boiling yet, but close enough. 

He's guessing the amount as well. Might be too much, he thinks, because that's how it always goes, except it doesn't really matter – once Rust actually starts eating something, he'll put away portions that would feed multiple people, easily. It's a mystery where he puts it all. 

(That's how you tell he actually likes something, Marty figured that one out years ago. Won't say anything, but just keep on wolfing it down, until there's nothing left or he suddenly seems to realize what he's doing, get self-conscious and abruptly stop. It's all good in Marty's book though. He's in the know, after all, so most of the time he tends to make sure he gets enough food on his plate right away and just leaves Rust to it.) 

“Here we go,” Marty says, nonsensically, just to fill the silence and hands the unused pasta back to Rust, who puts it back into the open cabinet next to his head without looking. He seems strangely agitated somehow, like a cat swishing its tail.

“Y’know what,” he says suddenly. “This is gonna take while, might as well go and have a look at that charger-” 

Which is as far as he gets, because he slides off the kitchen counter as he says it and then he straightens up, and then he’s directly in Marty’s personal space, because… well, Marty is still standing _right there,_ he’d like to think he’s pretty fucking hard to miss, and Rust stops dead in his tracks. Marty has no idea what’s showing on his face right now. Has the sinking feeling that it might be _everything,_ all of his fucking thoughts on display, plain as day, especially for Rust, who could always read him like an open book anyway. 

Rust is blinking at him rapidly, like a deer caught in the headlights, eyes flickering down for just a second, snagging on Marty’s mouth like a thread caught on a nail, but it’s real, it’s _proof,_ and it’s enough to unravel the whole damn thing. Marty grabs his collar and pulls him in, crashes their mouths together and Rust… melts into him, there’s no other word, no other description that would fit. Slings one arm around Marty’s shoulders and kisses him back and fucking _melts._

Marty licks into his mouth and pushes him backwards at the same time, until Rust hits the nearest wall with almost too much force, breath going out of him at the impact and Marty doesn’t even have the patience to let him catch it again; he’s got an arm wrapped around Rust’s waist, wedged between the wall and the small of Rust’s back, which basically forces Rust to arch into him, just a bit, just enough. 

“Jesus,” Marty pants and shoves his free hand under Rust’s shirt, has to pull the fabric out of Rust’s pants first to do it, and then he has his palm pressed against hot skin. Rust whines into his mouth, a low sound that makes Marty rock against him, like they can possibly get any closer than they already are.

They’re kissing like it’s their last day on earth or something equally dramatic, no finesse at all. Rust sinks his teeth into Marty’s lower lip, not even hard, just a little nip that has Marty running so hot he feels like he’s blacked out for a second, has him shoving a leg between Rust’s thighs, very deliberately pressing in and _up,_ and Rust tears his mouth away, breath hitching on a rough noise. 

He’s rolling his hips already, in what little space he actually has, and Marty just grabs the back of his neck, moves Rust’s head back into place with a thumb pressed against the side of his jaw, and kisses him again. Works Rust’s mouth open to push his tongue inside and feels Rust shudder against him at the contact, which makes Marty drop his hand and clutch at one of Rust’s thighs, makes him drag it up against his side, fingers digging into the muscle.

_“Fuck,”_ Rust hisses against his mouth. “Marty, fuck, _nh-”_

This is fucking ridiculous, Marty thinks, they could be doing this in a bed, they _should_ be doing this in a bed. When he pushes away from the wall, trying to separate them, Rust doesn’t let go, sways forward and into him, arm still wrapped around Marty’s shoulders, and makes them both stumble backwards until Marty catches his balance again. Somehow, they have the presence of mind to turn the fucking stove off in passing.

“Off,” Marty manages, tugging at Rust’s shirt, trying to shove it down his arms, which doesn't quite work, because Rust is still clutching at him and refuses to let go. “Get that fuckin’...” 

They’re moving in the direction of the bedroom on what seems to be pure instinct now, Marty walking him backwards, Rust letting himself be moved without protest, holding on tight. 

“What,” he rasps. “Marty, what do you want?”

Which is a loaded question, really, because the simple answer would be _everything,_ anything he wants to fucking give.

“Don't care,” is what he says out loud. “Really, don't even- I look like I give a fuck to you?” 

“Look like a lot of things to me right now,” Rust says, breath hitching in his chest when Marty separates them almost forcefully, both palms pressed to Rust’s shoulders, pushing him down – because they've reached the bedroom and the bed is literally _right_ fucking there. 

Rust sits down on the edge of the mattress without protest, blinking up at Marty with half-lidded eyes and his head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. Marty swallows and fits his palm against the side of Rust's neck and then, like he's mesmerized, he slides his thumb up over Rust's cheek until he reaches his mouth. Rust’s lips are dry and a bit chapped, and he lets Marty rub a thumb over his lower lip and finally slip it inside without any protest at all. 

It feels _obscene._

Looks suggestive as well, but it _feels_ lewd, hot press of tongue against the underside of Marty’s knuckle. Marty is hit by the memory of Rust’s slick mouth on his dick, swallowing Marty down like he knew exactly what he was doing, while clutching at Marty’s wrist like he needed to anchor himself. It’s overwhelming, almost, the way his body seems to shudder just at the _thought_ of it, arousal rushing through him. There’s a faint hint of pain, suddenly, Rust scraping at Marty’s skin with his teeth before he pulls off, lower lip shiny with spit where Marty’s thumb slipped out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Rust says hoarsely. _“Fuck,_ yeah- we can, yeah, we can do that, no problem-”

He’s breathing like he needs his whole body to do it, which is a weird way of putting it, but it’s true; it almost seems like it’s work for him, every breath deep and harsh, and before Marty even registers what’s going on, Rusts hands are at his waist, deftly undoing Marty’s belt. And for some inexplicable fucking reason that feels wrong somehow – detached and impersonal.

“Wait,” Marty hears himself say.

Rust freezes. His hands stay where they are, curled loosely around Marty’s open belt, but he goes absolutely and utterly still. Doesn’t even ask what’s going on, just stares straight ahead at his own hands. If Marty didn’t know him at all, he’d call the expression on his face reserved and distant, _bored_ almost… except Marty _does_ know him, and this is Rust trying his damn hardest to make an uncomfortable thing go away by refusing to acknowledge it at all. 

And then it hits Marty all at once: This is Rust waiting for the inevitable rejection. This is Rust expecting the gay panic to set in, for Marty to decide that this is insane and to say _thanks, but no thanks._ This, Marty thinks, this is the fucking reason for the goddamn _guest room._

Holy shit. He’s a moron. 

“No,” he says, which is the _wrong thing to say,_ damn it all to hell. “I’m not, we are, this ain’t- Jesus _fucking_ Christ, c’mere!”

Rust’s gaze flickers upwards at that and then he drawls, “Gettin’ a lot of contradictory input here, man” all fake fucking bravado, which makes Marty _ache_ for him, all of a sudden, because it’s not like Rust’s never faked his courage before, but usually you can’t tell with him at all. So he does the only thing he can think of, the only thing he wants to do, really, and sits down next to Rust on the mattress and pulls him in by the back of the neck, crashing their mouths together. 

It’s not very romantic, which doesn’t matter at all, because Rust kisses him back without hesitation, all teeth and desperation and clutching hands. Marty wraps an arm around his waist again and tries to haul him in, and Rust gets the message immediately, thank God, fucking genius that he is, and clambers up onto the bed, so all Marty has to do is turn towards him; and next thing he knows, they’re lying next to each other on the bed, plastered together so tightly it feels hard to breathe, kissing and _kissing._

When Marty gets his thigh between Rust’s legs again, Rust hisses against his mouth like he touched something hot, like he _burned_ himself; muscles clamping down immediately, body tensing up with what is very obviously pleasure. For some reason, it makes Marty’s stomach flip clean over, want curling hot and possessive around his lungs, in a way he recognizes, but hasn’t felt it in a fucking _while_ – the desire to make somebody else feel good, to make them pant and curse and _lose_ themselves, to make them shake _apart._

And oh, Marty thinks, but if Rust wants him to, if Rust will let him, Marty is going to make his body fucking _sing._

They’re rocking against each other by now, trying to get some friction; still mostly dressed and that’s just… that won’t do, Marty thinks. He tries to pull back and can’t, because Rust won’t let him, he’s following right along, like something metal sticking to a magnet. So Marty stops trying to move away and blindly reaches for Rust’s shirt again. Rust doesn’t seem to get the message at first, until Marty murmurs “Sit up for a bit, huh? Let’s get this off…” and then it seems to take a few seconds for the words to sink in, before Rust finally struggles upright.

Marty sits up with him, and then he just has to stare for a moment or two, taking in the view. Rust is just… _there,_ shirt hanging off of one shoulder, wife beater underneath all askew, on its way to sliding off as well. It looks fucking indecent, especially with the way his chest is rising and falling, which makes Marty simultaneously want to put his clothes back in order to cover him up and rip everything off of him with his _teeth._ It’s a strange, primal impulse, and the way Rust just seems… dazed, like he’s not even really sure what’s going on, does nothing to dampen it. 

“Off,” Marty manages for the third time, doesn’t even recognize his own voice. “Everything, just… get it off, sweetheart, c’mon.”

Rust seems to snap to attention at the pet name, jolt going through him, and then he’s saying “yeah, alright, okay, yeah-” and starts shedding his clothes. Pulls everything over his head in one erratic move and throws it off the side of the bed carelessly, before starting in on his pants. And Marty, who just barely finished getting rid of his own belt, realizes he didn’t even think that far ahead, but fuck yeah, that is a brilliant idea, he’s on fucking board with that. 

He takes off his jeans and then feels like maybe he should be self-conscious, because it almost feels weirdly rude not to be, at least a little, with Rust just… right there, looking like he does; except for whatever reason Marty can’t bring himself to give a fuck – because again, Rust is right fucking there, _looking like he does,_ which seems like the more important thing by a mile. 

He’s naked except for his boxers by now, looking at Marty like he’s trying to gage his reaction; almost like he’s waiting for instructions. And it shouldn’t come as a shock, the sinewy expanse of his body, long-limbed and scarred, because it’s Rust, Marty knows him, _knows_ what he looks like, except it’s something else entirely in this particular context. Marty thinks, all of a sudden, how he didn’t even get to _see_ yesterday, not really, and how he has to now, it feels absolutely essential. 

He reaches out and hooks two fingers into Rust’s waistband, curling on autopilot, pulling the cotton down a bit. Can see the muscles in Rust’s stomach jump at the contact, legs falling open.

“Yeah?” Rust says, all on an exhale, barely even a word. He’s fixated on Marty’s collarbone again, and it’s hard to tell if he’s doing it on purpose or if his eyelids are just... too heavy or something.

“Hell yeah,” Marty says and helps him tug his boxers off. 

Feels like he should brace himself, almost, which is a weird fucking sentiment, because… well, Marty knows what a dick looks like, and not even just his own. It’s not like this is going to be some world-shattering revelation, despite the fact that some backwards part of his brain seems to think it should be. 

Rust’s hard. That’s the first thing Marty notices – not any of the details, but that single, obvious fact. It seems impossible even now, the fact that Rust might be actually into this, to the point where the proof is undeniably _there._ He’s looking kind of self-conscious, just sitting there, with his arms straight out behind him, one of his long legs drawn up a bit, eyes cast downward, staring at one fixed spot on Marty’s chest again.

“Look at you,” Marty murmurs, and Rust snorts at that, a sound that seems to be halfway between amused and self-deprecating; except Marty’s being one hundred percent serious over here. He wants to touch him everywhere, wants to put his mouth all over him, except now the initial momentum is gone, the moment feeling almost reverent, and Marty’s not really sure where to start.

“Hey,” he says and then waits until Rust manages to really look at him. It doesn’t last long, gaze immediately flickering down to Marty’s mouth again, which is probably for the best, because for some fucking reason direct eye contact makes it hard to breathe somehow; feels like _too much,_ even though Marty couldn’t even say of what exactly. 

He shifts closer, slow and very deliberate, Rust swaying forward to meet him halfway almost instantly, and then they’re kissing again. It’s careful at first, like they’re both worried the other one might break, and then Marty puts a hand on Rust’s thigh, and Rust fucking _jolts_ at the touch and suddenly they’re off again. Marty pushes him down onto the mattress again with a palm against his chest and follows him down. He’s leaning over him a bit awkwardly, weight on one elbow, because Rust wraps an arm around Marty’s neck again and absolutely refuses to let go.

Marty’s hand drifts downwards again, like he can’t even help himself, over the expanse of Rust’s chest, gentling over the deep, angry groove that is the scar of the knife wound. Traces it with his fingertips, and Rust makes a noise in the back of his throat and shudders against him. 

“Alright?” Marty manages, almost shocked by the strong reaction, not sure if this is a good thing or not, even though Rust seems to be arching into the touch instead of away. He drags his fingertips back up again, barely even a whisper of a touch and Rust rasps, “Yeah- yeah, I’m, oh, _fuck-”_ His thigh is a hard and insistent press against Marty’s hip now, which absolutely shouldn’t feel as good as it does, because the angle is off, barely gives Marty anything to rock against, and it doesn’t even matter – because the _reason_ it’s happening in the first place is the fact that Rust’s legs have fallen open and he’s drawing one of them up, so the outside ends up pushing against Marty’s hip.

Marty puts his hand on Rust’s knee, drags it down against the grain of the light dusting of hair until he reaches the crease where Rust’s leg is connected to his hip, trying to span Rust’s thigh with his fingers. 

“Can I…?” he says, and Rust makes a sound that might have been a laugh, under different circumstances and in another lifetime, and says, “Can do whatever the fuck you want,” which should be _terrifying_ and ends up being an unbelievable turn-on instead. 

“Yeah?” Marty says, can’t help himself, and then he times it just right, because Rust draws in a breath, probably to give an answer, and Marty just goes for it, wrapping his fingers around Rust’s dick. It feels a bit like the moment before you jump into some water you _know_ will seem cold at first and bracing yourself for the sensation, because deep down you’ve already made up your mind that you’ll go through with it no matter what. 

And then he’s done it, and Rust doesn’t say whatever he was going to say; instead makes a very small, very shocked sound and some part of Marty’s brain can’t help but think that this doesn’t feel nearly as weird as he thought it might. He tightens his grip, just a bit, thinking that yeah, he can absolutely do this. Definitely doesn’t feel like his own dick and the foreign angle will take some getting used to, but apart from that, this is fucking fine. 

They're not even kissing anymore, because Rust’s mouth is just hanging open; he’s pushing their foreheads together, breathing gone harsh and erratic. 

“Gotta tell me if I’m fuckin’ this up,” Marty tells him. “Yeah? ‘Cause I’ve got no idea what I’m doing over here.”

“Never stopped you before,” Rust says hoarsely, and Marty has to grin at that, suddenly delighted. It makes it easier to move his hand, to experimentally stroke up and down once, and Rust moves with him _immediately,_ rolls his hips up and into Marty’s grip like he’s desperate for it. 

“Yeah,” Marty says nonsensically, and he’s watching now, fascinated, with Rust’s forehead pressed against his temple, mouth panting wetly against Marty’s cheek, couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. “Like that, huh? That feel good?” 

He’s fascinated by the muscles working in Rust’s legs and abdomen, how they tense up and then relax again, how willingly he’s put himself on display, how shiny and red the head of his dick looks, pushing in and out of Marty’s fist. Marty shifts his grip to circle his thumb over the tip and Rust just _moans_ at that, right against Marty’s jaw; Marty can feel the sound going through him, making his own dick twitch. 

He lets go on impulse, and fuck, but his hand is _trembling,_ and Rust makes a confused sound that turns into another moan when Marty pushes his thumb back into Rust’s mouth – just his thumb, but as far as it will go this time, not being too gentle about it.

“Nice and wet,” he murmurs. “There we go. Gonna make you feel so good, baby, you just wait and see.”

When he pulls his thumb back out, Rust makes an irritated noise, but Marty just kisses him again while he reaches down, replacing his thumb with his tongue and Rust sucks on that too, _fuck,_ not even a second of hesitation about anything, Marty _could_ do whatever the fuck he wanted, Rust would just _let him-_

He grips Rust’s dick again, circling his thumb over the cockhead, everything slick with spit and what is probably precome as well, holding on tight but not moving his hand otherwise, just rubbing and rubbing at him, over the head and then at the sensitive spot right underneath and Rust wrenches his mouth away again, saying “fuck, oh, _God,_ ffffuck-”, hands clutching at Marty hard enough to hurt. He’s _shaking,_ Marty realizes, oh God, arching into the touch shamelessly and whining through his teeth like he’s in pain. 

“You,” Rust manages and then his breath hitches and he has to try again. “You wanna fuck me or something, you absolutely can- I, I’m- whatever you- m’serious, Marty, whatever you fuckin’ wanna do-”

_“Jesus Christ,”_ Marty hisses, feeling his whole body _throb_ with arousal at the idea. “Christ, you, you can’t just _say_ that-”

“M’serious,” Rust says again, and he sounds like he’s slurring his words, like he’s fucking _drunk_ or something. “You, if you-”

“Shut up,” Marty tells him, almost panicked, because Jesus, _God,_ he can’t take him up on that, not right now, not like this; who the fuck even knows if Rust isn’t just offering it because he feels like he should, because he figures that’s what Marty might want. Marty honestly wouldn’t put it past him – probably would make perfect sense in that brain of his as well, to just grit his teeth and bear it, and Marty would honestly rather take a hatchet to the shoulder again before that ever becomes a reality.

It comes out sounding kind of harsh, at least to his own ears, so he turns his head and catches Rust’s mouth again, tells him “we... we’ll see about that” and “how ‘bout next time” and “let’s, let’s just, for now-” between kisses and Rust clutches at his shoulders in response and _pulls,_ with hard and insistent hands, until he’s dragged Marty on top of him. Marty has to let go of Rust’s dick for balance as a result, needs both arms to brace himself properly. 

Only when Rust starts to tug the boxers down with unsteady hands, lower lip caught between his teeth and his brow creasing with impatience, does Marty realize he’s still wearing his T-shirt and underwear; and then he _isn’t_ anymore and Rust reaches for him, cradling both of their dicks together in his warm palm. The sensation comes as a fucking shock, visceral and almost overwhelmingly good, like a lightning strike out of nowhere. 

_“Fuck,”_ Marty groans and twitches forward into his grip involuntarily, couldn't stop himself if he tried. Rust makes a sound that seems _almost_ pained, a low, keening kind of noise, and hooks one of his legs around the back of Marty's thighs, like it’s nothing, easy as pie, which makes Marty… fucking _feel_ things, terrible, glorious, _indecent_ things.

They get off like that, even though it takes a while, rocking into Rust’s tight grip, the feeling of their dicks pressed together trembling down Marty’s spine with every slide and making him feel like every bone in his body has liquified. 

In the end, they're both drenched with sweat and any finesse has gone out the window. Marty has a hand fisted in Rust's hair by the end of it, still braced above him, feeling completely out of control, because Rust seems _incoherent_ with it, moving and moving against him, like he’s going to take himself apart; and finally, when Marty pants “fuck, baby, gonna do this to you every fuckin’ day, never gonna stop doin’ this, you don’t even know-”, because that is the kind of shit he can’t help but say when he’s close to orgasm, it’s always been like that, Rust says, “oh, fuck, ffffff-”, stuck on the fricative like he can't even get the word out. 

His movements become erratic and it’s obvious, _this is it,_ and then he's bucking up and into his own hand and starts coming. Marty tries to watch, but Rust just pulls him down the rest of the way and hides his face against Marty’s neck and shoulder; huffing deep, desperate breaths, shaking and fucking _shaking._

For about a fraction of a second, Marty thinks that he might be able to hold on, to wait him out instead of losing it as well, but then everything is warm and slick all of a sudden – with Rust’s come, Marty thinks, white flash of realization searing through him, Rust just came all over everything, and that’s it, Marty rocks down against him with more force than intended, Rust’s grip going a bit slack, but it doesn’t even matter, because Marty’s done for anyway.

_Christ._

Ohh, Jesus, he thinks dizzily, _fuck._ It’s so _good,_ how the fuck can this be so good. It should be concerning, he should be fucking _concerned_ over here, except he absolutely can’t. Can’t focus on anything apart from riding it out until they’re both good and done. 

Rust’s arm is still slung around his neck, and Marty notices only then that he’s digging his fingers into Marty’s shoulder like he has to stop himself from falling, with his nails and everything, hard enough to hurt, but honestly? Marty couldn’t bring himself to give a fuck if he tried right now.

They end up on their backs right next to each other, pressed together from shoulder to hip, gasping for air even in the aftermath. 

“You alright?” Rust says eventually, and God, he sounds wrecked, voice like an open wound. 

Marty tries to say something and can’t, for some fucking reason, so he fumbles for Rust’s hand instead, intertwines their fingers and squeezes. Rust squeezes back. It’s half past one in the afternoon, everything daylight-bright, but still – all of a sudden, Marty has a single thought that seems more urgent than anything else.

“You’re sleepin’ here,” he says and honestly, he thinks, his own voice doesn’t sound much better than Rust’s.

There is a long moment of silence.

“M’not tired yet,” Rust says then, and Marty snorts, caught off guard and then he chuckles up at the ceiling. He can feel Rust’s shoulder pushing into his, just a bit, warm and companionable. 

“Tonight,” he says, doesn’t mind the fact that Rust is making him clarify. “Yeah? You’re sleepin’ here. Doesn’t even matter if we’re… you know. If we don't. Just, stay.”

“Yeah,” Rust says, so quietly it’s barely even audible. “I, I can. If you want.”

And Marty just squeezes his hand again.

**Author's Note:**

> This could've been a lot longer probably, but I refuse. I _absolutely,_ categorically refuse.  
> I've got other things to do with my life, I can't write pages and pages of one single sex scene. 
> 
> (Also, does the proud tradition of mangled Nietzsche quotes continue? Why, yes. Yes it does.)
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
